Our Polyphony
by Seeing Fire
Summary: A cold, calculating, intelligent young woman is hired by the BAU as the team psychologist. She seems to get along well with everyone, but there is something definitely off about her that Spencer Reid can't explain. Spencer Reid X OFC, with strong Morgan X Garcia. Rated somewhere between T and M (HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SHOW?) Warning: extreme violence. Please Read and Review!
1. Dependency Part One

**Season 3, Episode 4.5**

'**Dependency'**

**Quantico, Virginia**

'_We are all broken; that's how the light gets in.' –Earnest Hemmingway_

'Her name was Alicia Sharp, 26; went missing three weeks ago when she went to the grocery store. Three days later, she was found in the basement of an empty house; her head and limbs had been separated from her body. Autopsy revealed that she'd been brutally beaten before being dismembered, no sign of sexual assault.'

JJ's voice was grave and sombre as she explained the young woman's death. The woman's picture was on the projector screen; she had dark brown hair and sea green eyes, and tan skin. She was smiling. The picture next to this was of bloody masses that differed in size and shape, and could only barely be made out as dismembered limbs.

'Then last week', continued JJ, clicking the slide to a middle-aged brunette with brown eyes, 'Sandra Clemens, 43, went missing after leaving her weekly therapy session. Three days later, she was found in the basement of an empty house, but she'd been stabbed repeatedly in the face. But, according to the autopsy, she'd also been beaten before being murdered, and there was no sign of sexual assault.'

'Work of a serial killer?' asked Morgan to no one in particular. 'There seems to be a signature. Torture them for three days, and then kill them?'

'But serial killers rarely change victimology or MO', argued Reid. 'If this is a serial killer, he's done both. Alicia Sharp was in graduate school; Sandra Clemens was a business woman with a husband and two children; they look nothing alike, one was dismembered and the other was hanged. We don't have an established MO to look for.'

'But we have what looks like a signature', Morgan replied. 'It's like half a serial killer.'

'"Half a serial killer?"' repeated Prentiss sceptically. 'I didn't know they came in fractions.'

'Apparently they do', said Hotch, serious as ever. 'JJ, go with Reid to interview Sharp's family; when you get back, start working on victimology and MO. Morgan, you go check out the basements where they were found. Prentiss and I can talk to Sandra Clemens' family and go to that crime scene.'

Everyone nodded and left the room, bringing their files with them. JJ almost immediately paired up with Spencer.

'Tough case, huh?' JJ asked him.

'I think they're all tough cases', responded Spencer thoughtfully. 'They're not always this messy, but I think there's always something tough about solving them.'

'They're definitely tough for the families', said JJ.

'That part never changes', Spencer agreed seriously.

They rode the elevator down in silence, and then got out to get into one of the vehicles. Reid drove; JJ sat in the passenger seat reviewing the file.

'So, other than the possible signature, is there anything you can think of that these women both had in common?'

'I've been thinking about that', said Reid flatly, 'but I can't think of anything. They were different ages, not very physically similar; almost everything's different as far as I can tell. I mean, I guess he has somewhat of a type, but that limits the pool to brunette women; it doesn't help much.'

'Hmm', murmured JJ. She reviewed the case files carefully, finding nothing, learning nothing.

They arrived at Alicia Sharp's home after several minutes. They walked up the brick pathway, feeling as though they were intruding upon the family's grief, as they always did. Reid knocked on the door hesitantly.

It was opened by a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, which were swollen and red from crying. 'Can I help you?' she asked them, her voice brittle.

'Alona Sharp?' asked Reid tentatively, 'I'm Dr Spencer Reid, and this is Jennifer Jareau, we're from the FBI; we were wondering if we could ask you some questions about Alicia, if that's okay.'

Mrs Sharp eyed them suspiciously, but let them in. The house interior almost screamed 'Alicia Sharp!' as it had pictures of her everywhere. Here she was smiling with her friends as they held up an enormous volleyball trophy; there she grinned with her school principle as she held her high school diploma. In every picture she smiled, but in several of them there was something not quite right. Some of her smiles seemed forced, as though she was really feeling anything but cheerful.

'Mrs Sharp', began JJ, 'we'd like you to tell us everything you can about your daughter; what she was like, what she liked to do, everything you can think of about her. Okay?'

The woman looked at them blankly, but slowly nodded.

'She loved volleyball; she was the best player on the team. She loved everyone; I don't think she ever had an enemy. She was smart, she was popular; she was in the top five percent of her class when she graduated high school.'

'Do you know of any enemies she may have had?' asked JJ.

'No; she loved everyone.'

'Did you ever notice anything out of place in the weeks leading up to her death?' JJ continued. 'Any strange cars that shouldn't have been there; any strange people who suddenly began walking past your house every day?'

'No, I can't remember anything unusual. The day—the day before she went missing wasn't any different, either.'

'Ms Sharp?' asked Spencer suddenly, barely letting the woman finish her sentence. 'Did Alicia ever suffer from any stress or anxiety disorders, or frequent nightmares?'

Mrs Sharp stared at him. 'Yes. How did you know? Is that important?'

'It's just a question.'

'Well, yes, she developed General Anxiety Disorder after—after her father died. She began to worry about everything: what she was going to eat, what she was going to wear, if she was going to get through the day safely. I always just told her that everything was going to be fine, I...'

'Ms Sharp?' prompted Spencer, unaware of her discomfort.

'On the day she went missing', she whispered, 'right before she left for school, she told me she was feeling really worried about something; she didn't know what it was. I—I told her that nothing was wrong, and that everything would be okay, and that she was worrying about nothing.' Tears had begun to spill onto her cheeks. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

'Umm...' asked Reid awkwardly, 'was the stress disorder ever addressed?'

'She started therapy sessions with Doctor Siegen about a few months ago.'

'Okay, thank you for your help, Mrs Sharp; I'm sorry for your loss', said Spencer hurriedly, standing up and moving to the door. JJ followed him, frowning. 'If you think of anything else, could you just contact us?'

Mrs Sharp nodded looking surprised but relieved that it was over already. She watched Reid open the door quickly.

'Dr Reid?'

Spencer looked back at her. 'Yeah?'

'Find out who did this', she said quietly. 'Please.'

'We'll find him, Mrs Sharp', JJ promised. 'Thanks again for all your help.'

The door closed with a snap. Reid walked briskly down the brick path; JJ had to hurry to keep up with him. He got in the driver's seat, his expression blank.

'Spence?' asked JJ. He didn't answer.

'Spence! You okay?'

'Sandra Clemens went missing after a _therapy session_ for chronic stress. Both in therapy for chronic stress; here's our connection. JJ, call Garcia, I want her to research Sandra Clemens' therapist and Doctor Siegen, and then a list of all their other patients.'

JJ nodded, taking out her mobile phone and dialling Garcia.

'_Welcome to the mystical land of Genius; how may I grant your deepest desires?'_

'Garcia, you have Reid and me on the phone; we need you to research something.'

'_Ask and you shall receive, my friend.'_

'A woman, Sandra Clemens, she was in therapy for chronic stress; we need you to find out everything about her therapist and this other doctor, Doctor Siegen. Then could you get us a list of all their patients?'

'_Does Justin Bieber sing like a lady?'_

'Thanks, Garcia', closed JJ before hanging up. 'She's on it.'

'Great', said Reid, rather detached.

He drove them back to the BAU, silent all the way there, thinking about chronic stress disorders. General Anxiety Disorder. Panic Disorder. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder...

They had one possible connection, which narrowed the pool of the next possible victims to anyone with a stress condition. Not too large of a pool. He grimaced on the inside.

When they arrived at the BAU, they began working on the victimology and MO, as Hotch had asked. Even for experienced FBI Agents, the crime scene photos were sickening.

'Look at Sandra Clemens', said Reid, 'there's not an inch of her skin that's not bruised. The UnSub must have had reasonable strength.'

'And then on Alicia Sharp', said JJ, 'Her arm was cut off between the elbow and the wrist; the wrist is sticking out at the wrong angle. The UnSub obviously snapped it pretty hard.'

Spencer shook his head. 'Who'd do something like this?'

'There're lots of sickos out there...'

Spencer nodded and continued taping photos on the board. The MOs were so particular, they were almost personal. There was so much blood, and the torture so cruel; indicative of rage, yet calculated and organized enough to bring the victims to a place where they wouldn't be found for a few days. The UnSub was definitely a sadist.

'There's something else', said JJ. 'How'd he get them into the basements? Their cars weren't found at the places they were last seen, or at the houses where they were found. What did cars did they drive?'

'Alicia Sharp drove a grey Mazda 3 and Sandra Clemens drove a red Prius', answered Spencer automatically. He'd memorized them.

'Great', said JJ. 'Now, where are they?'

'I have no idea.'

For a moment they both stood there, looking at the photos with blank expressions. Then Hotch, Emily, and Morgan walked in, looking disgruntled.

'How's it coming?' asked Hotch.

'Fine; have you heard anything about their cars?' asked Reid quickly.

'No, we were just wondering about that', supplied Morgan. 'No one's seen them since they went missing.'

Reid closed his mouth tightly, forming a firm, thin line. Those cars had to be somewhere.

'I'll call Garcia', said JJ. 'She'll be able to get licence plate numbers, at least.'

'And she should have the details on Sandra Clemens' therapist and Doctor Siegen', added Reid.

JJ dialled, and Garcia answered in a matter of milliseconds. _'Once upon a time, a wise black man called a beautiful genius "baby girl."'_

'Garcia, you have all of us on the phone; do you have anything for us?' JJ asked her.

'_Oh, my dear friend, when have I not? Doctor Alan Siegen, 61, born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, married to a Lucile Siegen, doctorate in Psychology, has been a therapist at Marsohn Mental Health Services and Therapy for nineteen years now, planning to retire next year, clean record.'_

'And Sandra Clemens' therapist?' asked Reid eagerly.

'_Same person. And, yes, I'm sending a list of their patients and everyone else in their office right...now.'_

'Thanks, Garcia, and could you also get us the licence plate numbers of the victims' cars?'

'_Wait one moment, amigo...Okay, Alicia Sharp, grey Mazda 3, LIV2LUV; Sandra Clemens, red Prius, 25A9L01.'_

'Thanks; and then the security tapes from the grocery store and Marsohn Therapy parking lots?'

'_Will do, Brain Boy.'_

Reid frowned, but then shook his head slightly. That was Garcia.

'We need to talk to Doctor Siegen', said Hotch. His voice was, as usual, devoid of emotion. 'Reid, come with me to his office. Morgan and Prentiss, you work on victimology and MO and investigate anything else that turns up while Reid and I are gone. JJ, I think you have a Press Conference to attend; make sure put everyone on the lookout for Sharp's and Clemens' cars.'

Reid followed Hotchner out at a brisk pace in order to keep up with him. As they left, he saw a tall girl with dark brown hair tied up in a bun arguing with one of the Bureau members. He caught a snippet of their quarrel.

'...You don't understand; I need to see him.' Her voice was steady and did not shake, but there was an element of subtle anger.

'I'm sorry, ma'am; we can't investigate anything without evidence.'

'But to find evidence, I need help.'

'Sorry, ma'am. Bureau policy.'

The girl pursed her lips in frustration. _'Fine',_ she told him curtly. As she turned, she faced Reid and he looked into her eyes, which were bright hazel yet seemed to mask a storm inside. They narrowed, and then she turned away, leaving at a surprisingly fast pace. Reid couldn't help wondering what kind of evidence she needed, and whom she was so desperate to see.

The Therapists Office was a rather low building, having only one story, but was very long and very wide with many large windows that let the light in. The walls were a light beige colour, potted plants were everywhere; there was a pleasant seating area with thin, sophisticated-looking chairs with square, glass tables, which were very small and wouldn't be of much use, other than to set upon it a coffee and handbag. There was a thin, wiry looking woman behind a desk, looking at a computer through horn-rimmed glasses. Her mouth formed a very thin, very pale line, and Reid got the distinct feeling that she wasn't one to cross.

'Excuse me', said Hotch steadily. 'I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is Doctor Spencer Reid, we're from the FBI; we need to speak with Doctor Alan Siegen.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

Hotch and Reid stared at her. 'Ma'am, we're from the FBI. We need to speak with him immediately.'

The woman, whose name tag said, _'Margaret,'_ looked up at them angrily. 'He's in his office', she said curtly. 'His next appointment's in half an hour, so be snappy.'

'Thank you', Hotch said flatly. He and Reid walked down the right hallway to a door with a gold plate that read, 'Dr Alan Siegen,' with the number 1307.

Hotch knocked on the door firmly. 'Doctor Siegen!'

The door opened, revealing a kindly man with grey hair and glasses, looking rather younger than 61. He smiled good-naturedly as he said, 'Good day, sir. I'm sorry; do you have an appointment?'

'Doctor Siegen, I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner and this is Doctor Spencer Reid; we're from the FBI. We need to ask you a few questions about two of your patients.'

'This is about Sandra and Alicia, isn't it?' he asked sadly, his smile fading. 'I suppose you should come in, then.'

He stepped aside and let them in. His office was small, but felt cheery; there were photographs of laughing people on his desk, there was a bookshelf against the wall; it was as one might imagine a therapist's office, with an element of home. There were two chairs in the corner next to the window: one for the healer, and one for the afflicted.

Siegen pulled the chair from behind his desk next to the other two, so that they could all sit down properly. When they were all seated, he looked out the window. Although upon meeting him, he'd looked rather younger than his years, one could now clearly see how tired he looked, the sad lines in his face, the way his eyes seemed rather dead and empty.

'Doctor Siegen', Hotch asked him, 'was there anyone who may have wanted to hurt Alicia and Sandra?'

'Not that I can think of', he answered, looking back at them. 'I mean, obviously there were those whom they disliked and who disliked them, but no one who ever expressed wishes to hurt them in any way...'

'Was there any _reason_ why anyone would want them dead?'

Siegen shook his head.

'Doctor Siegen', asked Reid tentatively, 'were Alicia and Sandra improving, or getting worse, or what?'

'That's between a patient and their doctor.'

'Sir', Hotch reminded him sharply, 'two women are dead.'

Siegen looked at him sadly. 'I don't think their families knew, but...they were getting worse. Alicia started to have thoughts of suicide and Sandra was falling into depression. As far as I know, I'm the only one they told.'

Reid frowned slightly. 'And when exactly did they express these feelings to you?'

'Sandra told me about a month and Alicia about three weeks before they died.'

'Thank you, Doctor Siegen', Hotchner concluded the questioning. 'If you think of anything that might help us more, please: contact us.'

Hotch and Reid left Doctor Siegen where he sat. Even as they approached the door, it opened and in walked a young man, rather short and skinny, with pale skin and black hair and glasses that were nearly slipping off the end of his nose. He carried a small notepad with a thin, black pen, and had a rather nervous and twitchy demeanour.

'Doctor Siegen? I—I'm sorry, I didn't know you had an appointment—'

'No, Sam, it's quite alright', Siegen assured him good-naturedly. 'They were just leaving, unless I'm mistaken—'

'Thank you, Doctor Siegen', interjected Hotch, thanking him again. He pushed past the young man through the doorway, and Reid followed, looking behind his shoulder. The young man was sitting down in one of the chairs, beginning to speak. He closed the door, not wanting to intrude.

'What do we do now?' he asked Hotch.

'We go back to the BAU', Hotch replied, 'and hope Garcia has something for us.'

Garcia's face appeared on the screen in the Briefing Room. She was wearing a bright pink dress, with a bright yellow sunflower in her hair and a sparkly, beaded necklace.

'So', she told them, 'I was able to pull up the security tapes for the parking lots where the victims were abducted, and you won't like what you see.'

Another tab popped up on the screen featuring the parking lot of a grocery store. A girl with brown hair by a grey Mazda 3 was putting bags of groceries into her car. After a couple of seconds, a man came onto the screen, his arms full of bags. He dropped his bags as he passed the girl, and she immediately bent down to help him. As she lowered, his hands moved with incredible speed as he pulled out a gun and forced her up against the car. The team watched, helpless, as he coerced her into the passenger seat and he jumped into the driver's seat, and drove away.

'And here is Sandra Clemens' abduction...' continued Garcia, as they watched the same happen to a middle-aged brunette, although this time, the man walked seemed to fall at Sandra Clemens' feet. She bent down to help him up, bending down to her imminent death.

'He wore some kind of hooded sweater every time; that's convenient.' Emily shook her head, frustrated.

'At least I was able to get an approximate height on this guy', said Penelope, trying for a tone of optimism but failing epically. 'He's about 5'10.'

'Thank you, Garcia', Hotch said quietly. The screen went black. 'I think it's time to release a profile.'

They left the briefing room to assemble the rest of their agents together. Reid watched them gather around his team with different expressions: tiredness, disgust, anticipation, slight boredom, yet all shared the same look of determination. Hotch began the presentation of the profile.

'The man you're looking for is a white male in his late twenties to forties. He is an organized killer: he lures his victims by appealing to their sense of empathy, in this case, the desire to help someone in need, and abducts them. He doesn't choose his victims at random; he comes prepared to kill with a ploy and a murder weapon; he most likely either followed his victims to where he abducted them, or he studied their daily routines.'

'He's most likely living out a particular fantasy', continued Spencer, 'and these women were surrogates for a different woman in his life. He isn't able to hurt her, so he lashes out against other women who look or behave like that one woman. Because both victims are brunettes with chronic stress issues, we can assume that the actual target is the same.'

'This man is confidant', added Morgan. 'He's not someone you'd normally expect to be a killer. But he recently suffered a tragedy, possibly involving a brunette woman, like a mother, wife, or sister. Since then, he's become a bit absent minded; he lapses into short periods of anger and/or depression, but then suddenly snaps out of it for a few days. There may be times when no one knows exactly where he is, but people don't think about it much.'

'He may inject himself into the investigation', Emily mentioned. 'He'll be keeping up with the news and media. If he's caught, he may behave calmly, and will respond relatively well to a direct interview.'

'That's all for now', said Hotch steadily. 'Thank you.'

The agents and detectives dispersed, leaving the team alone. 'You all should go home and get some sleep. Unless he's devolving, he shouldn't abduct any women for a few days, and when he does, I need you all at your best.'

Everyone nodded and followed each other out, like a silent, weary flock of FBI agents. They got out to their cars, and drove home, and they were not disturbed until the morning when they returned to work.

Spencer Reid drove back to the BAU thinking about the letter he'd sent his mother yesterday evening. _'Dear Mom: we're working a pretty nasty case right now. One victim was dismembered; the other was hanged. They're beaten and tortured for three days before the UnSub does away with them. I hope that you're okay, that they're treating you well...'_

He missed her very much, more than he was willing to admit to anyone, but the nature of his job prevented him from visiting her very often. It made him slightly angry that his fractured schizophrenic of a mother who wouldn't remember to eat without the proper medication had been a better parent than his father had been.

Pouring the coffee at the BAU, he remembered what his mother said when he'd brought her there: _'That's why you're so skinny, you know. Too much coffee.' _ He smiled slightly as he swallowed, long used to its bitter taste.

'Hey kid', said Morgan, smiling as he approached him. 'Ready for Day Two?'

'Not if Day Two means Body Three', muttered Reid.

'It won't, unless he's devolving', Morgan tried to assure him. 'Even then, he'll get sloppier; it'll make catching him easier.'

'Do you _want_ more victims, Morgan?' asked Emily, joining the conversation. She was frowning as she poured some coffee for herself.

'Of course I don't want more victims', Morgan backtracked. 'I was just pointing out that—'

'I know, I know', she said, smiling slightly. 'I was teasing you.'

'Right', he muttered. Reid knew why Morgan was so uncomfortable with the concept of asking for more victims: when he'd first joined the BAU, he asked for more victims, and got one the next day, and felt awful.

'Any of you know what we're doing next?' Emily asked.

'No; we're still waiting for Hotch', answered Spencer, taking another swallow of the nasty coffee.

'We don't have to wait anymore; he and JJ are here', said Morgan.

'Into the Briefing Room, everyone', muttered Hotch as he and JJ brushed past. Morgan, Emily, and Reid followed the two of them up the stairs and into the Briefing Room.

'We need to choose our next course of action', said Hotch. 'We need to find more information concerning our UnSub, or we may not find him before he abducts another woman.'

'Yeah, I've been thinking about that', interjected Reid. 'The man we saw on the video tapes wasn't incredibly tall or muscular; while he was torturing them, he must have had some way of controlling them other than his gun.'

'The autopsy would have detected a sedative', Hotch reminded him.

'Mm, not necessarily', Reid insisted. 'There's one extremely little-known but effective drug called Fessumine, from the Latin word _fessvm, _or _weak_; it's virtually untraceable. He could have coerced his victims into taking it or given it to them while they were unconscious. If they'd been given Fessumine, they wouldn't really be sedated; their muscles would just feel extremely heavy and they'd be unable to defend themselves; they'd still feel all the pain.'

'How easy is it to get your hands on it?' Morgan asked sceptically.

'Incredibly difficult', Spencer answered him. 'You could only get it if you had some access to a scientific lab or mental hospital; it's sometimes given to highly delusional patients who tend to thrash around, so that they don't hurt themselves or others. Because some people have found this despicable, it's been banned in several states, including Maine, Wisconsin, Arizona, South Dakota, North and South Carolina, Montana—'

'Thank you, Reid', interrupted Hotch, subtly telling him to shut up.

'But we would have heard about a mass break in at a lab where large amounts of Fessumine were stolen', said JJ.

'The UnSub wouldn't have needed large amounts', Reid argued. 'One milligram would have been enough to control a victim for three days, easy.'

'Is Virginia one of the states that still use it?' Hotch asked him.

'Yeah.'

'So we're looking for someone of slighter build who has at least some access to Fessumine. Narrows down the profile a bit, huh?' Morgan asked, trying for optimism.

Suddenly, they heard a rapping on the door, and JJ opened the door to Agent Anderson.

'Yes?' asked Hotch.

'Agent Hotchner', said Anderson, looking a bit afraid. 'There's a woman here demanding to see you, her name's Braell; she's been crying for like five minutes.'

Hotch sighed and his jaw locked tightly. 'Bring her in.'

Anderson left and returned with a black-haired woman on the verge of hysterics. She was nearly as thin as Spencer's mother; her grey eyes were wet with tears. She clutched a lank handkerchief tightly.

'What's your name?' Hotch asked her.

'Katherine Braell, sir', she answered, trying to keep her voice steady as her body was racked with sobs. 'It's my daughter Amelia, sir. She left yesterday and she didn't come back.'

'I'm sorry, Ms Braell', Hotch told her, apparently trying to make his voice sound at least a bit gentle, 'but we can't do anything about that. Put in a missing persons report; we can't help you.'

'You don't understand!' She wailed. 'She came here yesterday afternoon because she had information for you, but she was brushed away, so she had to get the evidence herself. I was on my mobile phone with her, and then it just went silent. She never came back; I went to the place where she said she'd gone and all I found was her mobile on the ground; she's gone!'

'Ms Braell', asked Reid tentatively, 'do you know what kind of information she had?'

'It was about the more recent cases', she said throatily. 'Something about brunettes who were dismembered and stabbed—'

'That's the one we're working on right now', Reid interrupted.

Katherine Braell looked at him. Her grey eyes looked like broken glass. 'She said something about the victims' cars and the identity of the perpetrator, but I don't remember; she was talking too quickly for me to entirely understand. She always does when she's talking about murder cases.'

'What's her name again?' asked Morgan.

'Amelia', she replied. 'Amelia Braell.'

'Ms Braell', Hotch asked her, 'where was Amelia when your phone went silent?'

'Erm...a therapists' office, I think. "Marsohn Mental Health Services" or something of the sort.'

'JJ, call Garcia. Anderson, please escort Ms Braell out.'

They followed Hotch's orders: Anderson took the weeping woman by the arm and led her away; JJ dialled the phone. After a moment, her face popped up on the screen: today, she was wearing a low cut, purple and green dress with her hair in two buns on the side of her head, sparkly butterfly pins in each.

'Garcia', asked Emily, 'we need you to research a name—Amelia Braell?'

'On it.'

Reid turned around, looking at the pictures taped to the board. He really didn't want to add the photograph of a third victim.

'Amelia Alexandra Braell', read Garcia. 'Born fourteenth of January in Cambridge, UK, twenty-three years old. Reid, looks like we've got another genius on the line; she graduated Cambridge University at age nineteen with a degree in Psychological and Behavioural Sciences and had also taken classes in History, Classics, and Philosophy. She has an IQ of 178.'

'Wow', muttered Emily.

'Erm...' continued Garcia, surfing through Braell's file. 'Never became an actual officer, but she was often contacted by Detective Inspector Mason to help London's Criminal Investigation Department.'

'When did she come here?' asked Hotchner.

'Six months ago, in February.'

'Does it say why?' Hotch asked her.

'No, the files are sealed; I could try to hack in, but it might take a while. I'm sending her picture to you...now.'

Reid thought about the weeping woman._ 'She came here yesterday afternoon because she had information for you, but she was brushed away.' _

He remembered someone like that.

'Let me guess', he said quietly, 'dark brown hair, hazel-ish eyes, really pale.'

'So, now you're a boy genius _and _you've got eyes at the back of your head?' Garcia said, slightly snappy.

Spencer turned around, his heart sinking at the face staring back at him. Just yesterday, he'd seen her in the BAU, the one arguing with the agent about needing to see Hotch. She _had_ had information for them. She _had_ needed to speak to them.

Now she was missing, and hers might be the next bloody body they had to tape up on the board.

'No, no', he stuttered to Garcia, flustered. 'Yesterday, when Hotch and I were going to interview Siegen, I saw her, she was arguing with Agent Fuller about needing to see Hotch. She seemed pretty frustrated.'

'Now we know why...' said Emily, shaking her head.

'But, guys, she went to the therapists' office where Siegen works; she obviously knew something about Siegen or another staff member.'

'We need to have another talk with Siegen', Hotch declared. 'JJ, take care of the press and send out awareness for Braell. Reid, you're with me.'

Reid followed Hotch out, but couldn't help thinking that the last time he'd done this, he'd allowed a young girl's life to fall into greater danger than it already was.


	2. Dependency Part Two

Hotch must have seen his slight hesitation, for he turned and looked at him. 'There's nothing we can do about that now', he told Reid. 'The best thing we can do is to get this girl back safely.'

'I know', Spencer muttered. 'I just really wish...I don't know what I wish.'

'I understand how you feel, Reid', Hotch said to him. 'But instead of wishing that you'd done something yesterday, concentrate on seeing her again alive.'

Reid couldn't help thinking that Hotch didn't exactly understand. Nonetheless, he nodded and followed Hotchner towards the black car outside.

Hotch banged on the door. 'Doctor Siegen! Doctor Siegen!'

Siegen's bespectacled, kindly face appeared in the doorway. 'Agent Hotchner, Doctor Reid, can I help you?'

Reid pulled a photo of Lydia Braell from his shoulder bag. 'Doctor Siegen, this is Amelia Braell; do you recognise her?'

Siegen shook his head, baffled. 'I don't think I've ever seen her before.'

'Are you sure?' Hotch asked him.

'Quite sure...'

Suddenly his face lit up. 'Ah! I saw her...err...just yesterday, I believe. She was standing in the car park, on her mobile phone. When I looked out the window again, a few minutes later, she had gone.'

'Was there anything strange about yesterday, or today?' Reid asked urgently.

'Erm...My intern, Sam, he didn't come in yesterday. He called in sick today as well.'

'Who is this "Sam"?' Hotchner asked.

'Sam Gerveler, my intern', Siegen said, slightly panicked. 'You met him yesterday as you were leaving. He moved here from London, err, two months ago, I think it was. Why?'

'Doctor Siegen, how would you describe him?' Reid asked.

'Erm...He's confident, charming, eager to please; in short, a very good intern.'

'Does he suffer from temporary periods of depression, which he suddenly snaps out of for a few days?' Reid questioned.

'Well, yes—'

'Has he been showing up late or calling in sick more often lately?'

'Yes, well—'

'Are there times when you don't know exactly where he is?'

'Yes, well—oh, no, you're not saying you actually consider him a suspect, are you?'

'It's too early to say much yet', Hotch told him.

'But, assuming your question wasn't rhetorical, yes, he is now a suspect', Spencer said, unaware of Siegen's horror. Hotch's mobile phone began to ring.

'Excuse us, Doctor Siegen', he told the aged man as he and Reid left him, looking mortified. Once the door had been closed and they were standing in the carpeted hallway, Hotchner answered.

'Morgan, what do you have for us?'

'_Hotch, Reid, we had Garcia check the security footage, and things just got weird. The UnSub didn't lure her; looks like he just picked up a rock from the car park and knocked her out. He somehow singled out the other victims, but this was a blitz attack. Why would he change his method?'_

'Maybe he's devolving and doesn't consider luring them worth the time', Hotch said thoughtfully.

'But luring them was part of his signature', argued Spencer, 'and both had the same therapist; we don't know if she was even _in_ therapy at all. The only reason he would've turned to a blitz attack was if he wasn't actually planning on targeting her, which means...he must've known her.'

There was silence as Hotch looked at him; his black eyes boring into Reid. After a few seconds, Hotch turned back to the phone. 'Morgan, have Garcia pull up everything she can on Sam Gerveler, and have her comb for any connection he had with Amelia Braell.'

'_Yeah, Hotch.'_

'Morgan—if he does know her and he wasn't specifically targeting her, he might not be interested in her as a victim, which means he might dispose of her as quickly as he can', Reid warned him.

'_You're saying she's already dead?'_

'No; I'm saying that sticking to his MO might not be as important to him', Spencer clarified. 'Most likely he's tortured her for the gratification it gives him, but his priority right now is getting rid of her.'

'_Got it. Thanks, Reid.'_

Hotch's phone snapped shut. Spencer looked at him, silently thanking him: this was a big risk he was taking, yet Hotch trusted him. Hotch nodded shortly and stalked briskly down the hall. Reid followed him; although he was thankful, he was slightly frustrated. He spent his days as a follower: one day following Hotch, another day following Morgan as he kicked down doors; he even had to follow the leads of JJ and Emily when interviewing and comforting grieving families, as they were far better acclimated to the emotions of others.

He was a follower, nothing more.

Garcia's face popped up on the screen in the Briefing Room. 'How's it going, Hot Chocolate?'

'Hey, Baby Girl', Morgan greeted her back, grinning.

'Garcia, what do you have on Sam Gerveler?' Hotchner tried to get them back on track, not amused.

'Right, err', Garcia murmured, flustered. 'Samuel Gerveler, 32, moved here from London, England, and began to work as an intern to Doctor Siegen. Here's his photo.'

A photo of the young pale man with black hair whom Reid and Hotch had seen yesterday appeared on the screen.

'Any connection to Braell?' Morgan asked her.

'Already there, Sugar: Amelia Braell was a very good friend of Sam's sister, Grace Gerveler.'

'There's our connection', said Emily.

'Where is she now?' asked Hotch.

'Suicide. Two months ago.'

'And there's our stressor', Spencer said.

'It also explains the rage when he dismembered Alicia Sharp and stabbed Sandra Clemens in the face', Emily added.

'And you're going to _love_ me for this: just like our victims, she suffered from chronic stress and just happens to be a Caucasian brunette.'

'What's his address?' asked Hotch.

'2429 Bailey Avenue.'

'Are there any empty houses around there? Any on the market?' Reid asked her.

'Erm...' Penelope muttered, typing swiftly. 'Two. And, yes, I've just sent you the addresses.'

'Baby Girl, you are on fire', Morgan told her, his voice low, his white teeth flashing through his lips, parted in a grin.

'When am I not?' Garcia replied with a smile. The screen went black.

'Prentiss and I will go to the first address; Reid and Morgan to the second. JJ, go to Sam Gerveler's house. Call us if you find anything.'

They dispersed, heart rates elevated with the possibility that Amelia Braell might be found alive.

'Seriously, slow down, Morgan; we can't help her at all if we're dead!'

'Relax, genius, I'm only ten miles over the limit.'

'11.62, and ten miles over isn't exactly reasonable. What happens to Lydia if we get into an accident?'

'Here's the thing, Reid', Morgan said calmly, slightly amused at Reid's panicked frustration. 'Speed limits are _suggestions_.'

'Erm, I'm pretty sure they're—'

'_Limits_ are for those of insecure driving; _suggestions _are for the confident. Come on, Reid, you've got to use some imagination when you're driving.'

'Actually, driving is more closely related to functions of the prefrontal cortex, which—'

'Yeah, okay.'

Spencer, slightly put out, recognized the _'Reid-I-don't-care-about-anything-you-might-say-in-next-thirty-seconds' _tone, and, sighing efficiently enough that it could express his disappointment yet quiet enough that Morgan wouldn't hear, gripped the armrests as his friend sped up even more. He understood attempting to reach a possible prison quickly, but not flying like a bullet through heavy traffic. Now was definitely the wrong time to get into an accident.

Morgan drove up to the house, which looked normal and peaceful enough, and slammed on the breaks, causing Spencer, taken by surprise, to lurch forward a little. Instinctively he reached his hands forward and the force with which they hit the dashboard sent a minor shot of pain through his wrists.

He bit back an interjection of annoyance, like, _'Seriously?' _or, _'Thanks for the warning' _and nearly leapt out of the car. Several other officers were there, strapping on bulletproof vests. After some strayed bits of conversation and planning, the officers and FBI agents entered the house.

To say that the house was nice was an understatement: there were contemporary paintings on the walls, shiny, black, leather sofas, and glass tables; the walls were a light grey colour and the ceilings were high. Morgan and Reid didn't wait to admire the view; they advanced towards hallways and closets where entrances to basements might be hidden. 'Clear!' They heard several times by officers at the other side of the house. 'Clear!' Reid and Morgan called back as they inspected the eastern hallway.

'I don't understand', Morgan told Reid. 'Maybe she's where Hotch and Emily are.'

'Maybe...' Reid's voice trailed off as he shifted his weight onto his left foot and heard an unnaturally loud creak. He frowned and stepped towards the sound. It creaked again and made a shallow but hollow echo. He reached under the fuzzy black rug and found a cold, metal latch, and looked up at Morgan. 'Here.'

Morgan knelt down with him and nearly ripped the little door off its hinges, revealing a narrow, dark stairway. There was a light bulb hanging from a string, but when pulled did nothing. Morgan and Reid pulled out their electric torches and descended down the stairway.

After the stairway, there was a dark, wooden hall that went on for about thirty feet. The air was earthy and musty, and smelled of moist, good soil. There were no doors, or openings, or...anything.

'There's nothing here', Morgan said in frustration. 'Nothing.'

But Reid was already moving on, intrigued by a sound, not of pain, but of singing. _'...Is nailed to that cross, and I bear it no more...Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul...' _He followed the sound to the end of the hall, and looked at the wood. Someone had crudely covered this area; obviously, they hadn't had the slightest idea of what they were doing. He knocked on it gently yet forcefully. A hollow noise resonated within the area he knocked. The singing stopped.

'Morgan—'

But Morgan was already by his side and ready to kick in the beams. He pulled his leg back and lurched forward with an instantaneous and fluid motion, and the feeble wood collapsed under his force. The hole opened to a large open space lit by a single light hanging from the middle of the ceiling.

In the middle of the room under the light, a girl sat strapped to a chair. She had been badly beaten, blood ran down the side of her head and flowed freely onto her neck; the coarse ropes with which she was bound had cut into her wrists and ankles leaving them bruised and shallowly cut. Her eyes, however, were not as Reid remembered them (a phenomenon almost unheard of): they were a dark brown, almost russet-coloured, rather than the hazel eyes which had first met his.

Nonetheless, this was in fact Amelia Braell, dirty, bloody, and beaten, but still she. Her brown eyes looked up at them without fear or pain; indeed, they were strong, and hard, and she held them the way one might hold the eyes to greet a formal acquaintance.

Amelia did something neither Reid nor Morgan had anticipated: she smirked and said, 'Nice of you to drop in.'

'Down here!' yelled Morgan, a little late, perhaps, flustered by Amelia's strong, dry sarcasm. They heard footsteps drawing nearer as Reid rushed forward to cut Amelia's bonds. When he knelt down beside her, however, her words were, 'What's the time?'

Spencer frowned and continued to cut the ropes with his knife. When they fell, limp and moist with her blood, she made no move, but merely continued to look at him with hard, cold eyes. 'What's the time?' she repeated.

Spencer supposed that she had perhaps suffered a sort of mental breakdown and was not in her right mind, so he sighed and looked at his watch. 'Erm...6.24.'

'You don't sound very sure', Amelia replied irritably. She stood up, a little wobbly from the Fessumine, and brushed herself off. 'Where's Sam?'

'Our friends are at his house right now', Morgan had joined them confidently.

'At his house? You won't find him there. He said he was going to work to wait for you there.'

Derek and Spencer stared at her. 'And this information was less important than the time?' Morgan asked her incredulously.

'What, do you have certain expectations of me? Was I supposed to cry out and manage to gasp where he is and then faint into your ever-welcoming arms?'

The two agents exchanged similar _'What-is-she-doing'_ looks; this girl was something else.

Then Morgan's phone rang. He opened it with an 'Excuse me' to Reid and Braell, and walked away. They caught words and phrases like 'her' and 'rescued' and 'piece of work.'

'Come on, Amelia', Reid told her awkwardly, trying to break the silence, 'we should get you to the hospital.'

'"Hospital?" I'm not going to hospital. I need to talk to Sam.'

'You what? No.'

'You work in BAU, do you not?'

Spencer was a bit thrown off track with this new question. 'Yes.'

Her brown eyes seemed to darken at his answer. 'You can build a profile of his behaviour, but you don't know him. I know psychology, I know _his_ psychology; I know what sets him off. I'm no stranger to this.'

Reid pursed his lips, debating with himself. It was against protocol, but she had a point: they knew he was a confident, organized killer, who was acting out a fantasy for rage at his dead sister, but they hadn't yet figured out who he was or how they could make his rage bow. He sighed, knowing Hotch would soon grow weary of listening to Reid's eccentric requests.

'_No.'_

Hotch's answer was not entirely unexpected, but thoroughly frustrating.

'She can help us.'

'_She's a civilian. Civilians are not to get involved in BAU investigations.'_

'But she's done this before. She knows the general procedure. And she knows Sam.'

Hotch was quiet on Morgan's phone for a moment, taking in Reid's request. _'I don't want to put Braell in any more harm.'_

'Hotch—she _wants_ to come; she bluntly refused to go the hospital.'

'_Fine. But she'll be your responsibility, Reid.'_

'I understand. Any word from JJ?'

'_He'd made photocopies of Alicia Sharp's and Sandra Clemens' files in Doctor Siegen's office. That's how he was able to target people with chronic stress; he'd searched them out. She also found their cars in the garage.'_

'In the garage? That's not the most sophisticated place to hide trophies.'

'_No, but that's where they were. Make sure you, Morgan, and Braell are at Siegen's office within the next half hour; Prentiss and I will meet you there.'_

'Yeah.'

Morgan's phone went silent and Reid handed it back to him. 'Amelia's coming with us.'

'So I heard', Morgan replied sullenly. He certainly didn't look very happy about it. 'Great.'

Spencer nodded slightly and walked back to where Amelia was standing. 'I talked to Hotch, he's my supervisor.'

Amelia stared at him as though he were telling her a joke by which she was not amused. 'I know you were on the phone with your supervisor; what did he actually _say?'_

'He says you can come, but you'll be my responsibility.'

'Brilliant', she said absentmindedly. She sounded less than enthusiastic. 'May I leave the basement?'

'Erm...yeah, yeah, I guess so—'

She nodded before he finished his sentence and made her way through the several officers crowding the doorway and disappeared. Reid followed her, wanting to keep an eye on her in case she decided to take the case into her own hands.

When they broke out, Reid was able to see her better. Her shirt, though bloody and torn in some places, was grey with long sleeves, and the bottom went down to her mid-thigh, light against her dark jeans. Her long, wavy brown hair hung down her back, dark and sticky with her blood. She walked to the sink and, finding a long tear in the fabric of the bottom of her shirt, removed a strip of clothing and carefully turned on the tap at the kitchen sink. She wetted the fabric and washed the blood and dirt from her face and hands, wincing slightly. The sound of her voice startled Spencer. 'So now I need supervision to get out of a basement?'

Spencer didn't know she was even aware of his presence. 'Well...erm...'

'It's fine, I probably would have done the same were our positions switched', she told him, still not facing him.

Spencer marvelled at how strong her voice was. Most victims of kidnapping and torture could barely gasp out a hoarse whisper; Amelia, beaten and bloodied though she was, spoke with a voice stronger than those of some healthy people.

'When are we leaving?' Amelia asked.

'As soon as Morgan gets up', Reid responded.

Amelia turned to face him. 'You should know, about Sam, he—'

Before she could finish her sentence, Morgan walked briskly out of the hallway. 'We should go; Hotch needs us there in a few minutes.'

'Oh really?' Amelia asked him with an undertone of sarcasm. 'We should leave, then.'

Reid snorted. Amelia looked at him and was not amused, but her eyes held a strange sort of light that suggested mischief.

The three of them walked out and got into the car; Morgan slammed his foot on the accelerator and Reid and Braell were flung backwards onto their seats. Spencer looked back at Amelia, who was sitting in the back-seat, shaking her head slightly.

'So, anyway, Amelia, what were you saying about Gerveler?'

'Their parents died when Grace was nine and Sam eighteen. Sam developed a relationship with Grace similar to that of older sister-younger brother, or even mother-son. He was obsessive about it—he called her about ten times a day. When Grace was about eighteen, she became stressed, chronically so, and put some more distance between herself and Sam. About a month later, Sam went to her flat and they had a huge fight. He yelled and screamed at her, and she only barely managed to get him out. After that she cut off all contact.

'I went back to London for her funeral and in the middle of the service I and a friend of Grace's had to carry him out. He was thrashing and screaming about how she was weak and that she had abandoned him and he hated her. Sam was emotionally dependent on her, and however confident and well mannered he may seem to strangers, he has severe abandonment issues.'

Amelia said all this on about two breaths. Derek and Spencer looked at each other. 'He must've known that Sharp and Clemens were getting worse and was reminded of his sister's weaknesses', muttered Reid. He hadn't intended for Amelia to hear him, but apparently she did, for she whispered, barely audible, _'No.'_

'What do you mean, "No"?' Reid asked, confused.

Amelia stared at him. She then shook her head a little and looked out the window. 'Nothing.'

Spencer continued to frown, but didn't press the issue. In the hour or so that he'd known Amelia, he'd realized that she wasn't really his favourite person.

Reid called Hotch quickly. 'Hotch? Lydia says that Gerveler was emotionally dependent on Grace. When she committed suicide, he completely snapped at the funeral.'

'_Emotional dependency; I'll tell Prentiss.'_

Reid shut off the phone and glanced at Braell through the rear-view mirror. They were going off of her word alone, assuming she was an honest person. There was something off about her, though; Spencer couldn't put his finger on it.

They arrived at the therapists' office in another five minutes of silence, save for several gasps from Reid and Braell at some of Morgan's...adventurous driving techniques. They saw one of the black vehicles in front of the building and Hotch and Prentiss fidgeting with the straps on their bulletproof vests. Once again, Morgan slammed on the breaks and once again, Reid, along with Amelia, lurched forward. They unfastened the seatbelts and got out of the car, going to join their comrades.

'Hotch!' called Morgan as he approached him. 'Is Gerveler here?'

'Yeah, we found his car by Siegen's', Hotch replied.

'Hotch, he could be holding Siegen as hostage as we speak', Morgan warned him.

'We know', Hotch told him, 'but that doesn't change our priorities.

'Miss Braell', Hotch greeted her. 'I'm glad to see you're safe.'

'Pleasure to meet you', Lydia responded.

'Braell, you must know how this works. We try to get Gerveler alive but our main priority is getting the people out safely.'

'Yes, sir', she said immediately.

'You're not to shoot him unless absolutely necessary, do you understand?'

'Yes, sir', she said again.

'Good', said Hotch. He gave her a handgun and said, 'Don't make me regret giving you this.'

'Thank you', Lydia said quietly.

Emily seemed to spot Lydia and nodded towards her. Amelia nodded back, her face devoid of emotion. The five of them, Hotch, Prentiss, Morgan, Reid, and Braell, burst into the office building. The desk woman, Margaret, looked up, alarmed.

'Excuse me, but—'

'Ma'am, we need you to exit the building', Morgan told her urgently.

The woman looked aghast. 'Why would I—'

'Ma'am, I must insist you leave', Morgan said to her, obviously frustrated.

Margaret stood up and shifted her glasses into place, and, frightened by the guns in their hands, fled.

The five of them made their way through the building to Doctor Siegen's office. Hotch banged on the door. 'Doctor Siegen! Doctor Siegen, FBI!'

They heard some grumbling as Siegen made for the door, and Spencer caught the phrase, 'Again? _Really,_ you were here just earlier—' There was a gasp, and then there was silence.

'Doctor Siegen!' Hotch called again. There was no answer. Morgan kicked through the door.

Samuel Gerveler stood there, no longer the nervous, twitchy young man who was eager to please his boss. His glasses were askew and his eyes were insane, driven mad with hopeless longing, as he held a gun to Siegen's temple, fingers on the trigger.

'Don't come any closer!' He screamed at them.

Amelia came out into his view. 'Sam, think of Grace. Is this what she'd want?'

'Why should I care what she wanted?' He cried, insane. 'She was weak! She abandoned me!'

'She abandoned you like your parents did when they got into a car accident. Because that was their fault, wasn't it?'

Reid could see that Amelia was pushing her way into Gerveler's soul. He was getting steadily angrier, but there was something dysfunctional about that anger even for a man like Gerveler. Amelia was breaking what little of him remained.

Her last comment had left him flustered. 'No—no— but Grace cut me off! She didn't care about me! She didn't care about anything!'

Sam sounded like a three year old trapped inside a thirty year old body. Lydia shook her head. 'She loved you, Sam. She did. She just couldn't be the person you needed her to be.'

'She was weak!'

'She was Grace Gerveler, Sam, not Helen Gerveler. She couldn't be your mother.'

'She was weak!'

It was as though that sentence was burned into his mind, the only thing he could repeat. _She was weak. She was weak_.

'Sam, drop the gun', Braell told him, her voice steady, unshakable. Her face was a calm mask, peaceful yet silently demanding.

He shook his head, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face.

'Don't make me do something I'll regret, Sam', Braell told him, her dark eyes smouldering, not blinking.

Sam then did something none of them expected: he laughed a coarse, gasping laugh. 'Ah, but you wouldn't regret it though, would you, any more than you'd regret anything else—'

Braell's face paled and something changed in her eyes, for they flashed for a moment, and then returned to a normal state of calm. 'I'll ask you one more time, Gerveler, _drop the gun.'_

The somewhat symbolic switch from the use of his first name to his last name seemed to set Gerveler off; his sister's friend of many years had abandoned his name, his identity: he was now nothing more than an UnSub.

He frowned and screwed up his face, lowering his gun in confusion. He released his hold on Siegen, who rushed to the team. Although it had been slightly lowered, Gerveler kept his gun in front of him defensively.

'Gerveler—'

Sam raised his gun once more and pointed it at Amelia, but with surprising skill and steadiness Braell pulled the trigger and shot him in the hand. Gerveler cried out and clutched his wrist, sinking to the floor as he flung his gun to the side. Morgan rushed forward to arrest him, and called for a medic. Braell stood still for a moment, looking calmly upon the man whom she had just incapacitated, who had once been her friend, without any sadness or pensiveness, and then walked out the door. Reid followed her, curious.

When Amelia stopped in the hallway, out of earshot from the others, Reid asked, 'You okay?'

Amelia turned around to look at him, frowning slightly. 'Yes. Why?'

Spencer was taken aback. 'Well, you _did _just shoot a man you've known for years...and you don't seem bothered by it.'

Amelia smiled in a warm but obviously cold way. 'I'm fine, really. I'm sorry; I didn't get to formally introduce myself earlier. I'm Amelia, but you already know that. I suppose your BAU knows enough about me, anyway. I think I came off as a bit cold earlier, sorry.'

If Spencer had been taken aback at Amelia's lack of emotion at shooting her friend's brother, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt now. 'Erm...it's—it's okay, I guess—'

Braell smiled at him and walked away, leaving Spencer very, very confused.

JJ walked over to Spencer's desk, where he, Morgan, and Prentiss were gathered. She was smiling. Behind her walked a healthy, clean Lydia Braell, also smiling in a kind of dry way.

'What are you doing here?' Spencer asked her.

'Nice to see you, too', Amelia replied in an annoyed way. 'Your supervisor wants to see me.'

Reid frowned as JJ led Amelia to Hotch's office. JJ walked back to them, leaving Amelia in the hands of Hotch and Strauss.

'What was that about?' Emily asked her.

'Nothing', JJ replied cheerfully. Amelia remained in Hotch's office for hours, and, although Reid, Morgan, and Prentiss asked many questions, JJ merely smiled and refused to answer.

'_Pain is no evil, unless it conquers us.' –Charles Kingsley_

**I don't own Criminal Minds, only the OFC. *Note: Fessumine is not an actual drug; I created the **_**idea**_** of it for my own uses.**


	3. Dilation Part One

**Season Three, Episode 5.5**

'**Dilation'**

**Topeka, Kansas**

'_The greatest evil perpetrated is by the evil committed by nobodies, that is, by human beings who refuse to be persons.' –Hanna Arendt_

Amelia Braell knew she should be less confident, more nervous, than she actually was as she walked into the Briefing Room.

When she walked through the door, Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid stared at her. She smiled, very adept at putting up a front, and confidently sat down at the only empty chair at the round table and opened her case file. She looked up to see the three agents still staring at her, and looked at Hotch, as though asking him to explain. He took the hint and brought his team up to speed.

'After the arrest of Sam Gerveler, Strauss and I offered Braell a temporary position here as the team psychologist. She'll be helping us with the next few cases until Strauss and I decide whether or not to make the position permanent. Right now our main focus is the case.'

The agents nodded. Reid caught Amelia's eye, and she held his gaze as though it were a contest to see who could hold eye contact longest.

Amelia won.

'In the last three weeks, three women have been murdered in Topeka', JJ informed them. 'Margaret Hill, 42, Kristen Ellis, 47, and Jill Crawford, 44; all three were found in ditches with their hands above their heads.'

'Demeaning position', Amelia noted absentmindedly.

'And the coroner found this in their throats', said JJ, clicking the slide. Three wet masses of fabric appeared, rather grey and string-like.

'What is that?' Prentiss asked bit revolted. 'Is that _string?'_

Amelia shook her head, recognizing the masses to be too thick to be string. 'No. It's yarn.'

Braell's exceptional hearing picked up on Emily catching her breath a little. Braell looked back at JJ. 'Ante or post-mortem?'

'Ante-mortem', JJ replied. 'The coroner said that it was probably put in a few inches at a time over the course of about ten minutes.'

'This guy's a sadist', said Morgan. 'Torture by suffocation.'

'Asphyxia causes abnormal breathing and brain damage', said Reid emphatically. 'As the body processes the remaining amount of the blood's oxygen, the organs fail; it's a very painful form of torture.'

Braell nodded at him; she supposed it was the polite thing to do according to society's standards. In reality, she already knew the effects of asphyxia and assumed the others did as well, but she told herself to be civil and courteous with her colleagues.

'What's the TPD been doing about it so far?' Hotchner asked JJ.

'So far all they've been able to do is keep the media at bay', she replied, sighing slightly. 'They don't have any leads.'

'Okay', said Hotch, unhindered by this less than wonderful news. 'We're going to Topeka. Wheels up in thirty.'

Nearly everyone nodded and left, but Morgan took Hotch's shoulder and kept him behind, looking a bit concerned. Amelia glanced at them as she walked out of the Briefing Room, and suspected the source of Morgan's concerns, but thought nothing of it and put it out of her mind. She didn't have time for any suspicions Morgan might have of her, nor did she care.

The aeroplane's interior was mostly tan-and-beige-coloured, with several seats and tables. Braell followed the others in, single-file, and, although she maintained a warm and comfortable disposition, she sat in the back of the group, leaning away from the others: however kindly and charming she seemed, she had no desire to partake in their conversations and social engagements.

'Hey, Braell', Emily called to her; 'you okay back there?'

'I'm well, thank you', Amelia responded courteously. 'You?'

'I'm good', said Emily, perhaps slightly surprised by Amelia's politeness.

Braell noticed Morgan and Reid looking at her curiously. 'Can I help you?' she asked them, smiling.

Morgan cocked his head to the side. 'Your eyes changed colour. In your picture, your eyes were hazel. When we found you, they were dark brown. In the Briefing Room, hazel, now, dark brown. It's weird.'

'That's most likely caused by the pupil dilating and shrinking in different lighting', Reid launched into his explanation. 'When the pupil dilates, melanin pigments in the iris are pushed together to make the eye look darker, and when the pupil shrinks, the pigments spread out, making it look lighter. I'm just assuming you don't have an eye disease', he added quickly. 'But even disease might make it result in a noticeable form of heterochromia iridis, also called heterochromia iridum—'

'No, Reid, I don't think she has eye disease', Morgan interrupted him. 'Do you?'

'No, I don't', Amelia said, grinning without humour. Morgan leaned over, out of Reid's range of hearing, and whispered,

'I knew you probably didn't, I just said that to shut him up. You might think he's cool right now, but, trust me, he'd have gone on for another twenty minutes.'

Braell laughed a bit. 'Yeah, okay.'

Reid frowned at them. 'Morgan, _please_ don't tell me you're already flirting with the newbie.'

Morgan laughed. 'Maybe not yet, Pretty Boy...' He turned to wink at Amelia. She rolled her eyes, thinking the whole thing childish. She longed for both of them to shut up, but instead let them think she was actively engaged in their _fun._

When Hotch got into the plane, everyone fell into silence. 'Where were you?' Morgan asked him.

'Strauss needed me for moment', he responded. 'Garcia's been searching for connections in victimology; she should have something for us soon.'

'You know Garcia, right?' Morgan asked Amelia.

'The woman who introduced herself in a bright orange dress and cat ears? Nah.'

Nearly everyone laughed at least a little, except for Reid, who frowned, obviously confused. _'Has he ever heard of sarcasm?'_ Braell whispered to Morgan. _Not really,_ he mouthed back, smirking.

By Morgan's friendliness and the others' reasonable acceptance, Braell guessed she had charmed them well. Charming people was one of her strong points. Despite her friendliness and easy-going front, she felt that she could relate more to Reid: more introverted, more intelligent, more alienated from society.

'Why yarn?' Prentiss brought up. 'That's such a random thing to suffocate someone with—why didn't he just use a plastic bag or something?'

'It could be a forensic countermeasure', said Reid. 'We wouldn't be able to get prints off yarn, and it's such a common material that we wouldn't be able to trace it to any one store.'

'But I can't imagine the yarn being nothing more than a countermeasure', Braell responded. 'It's too specific.'

'So the question remains why yarn is so important to this UnSub', said Hotch.

Penelope Garcia appeared on the screen. 'What do you have for us, Garcia?' Hotch asked her.

'The victims all led comfortable, middleclass lives. All three were married, and Kristen Ellis and Margaret Hill had children. Only Jill Crawford was employed.'

'They could be surrogates for a middleclass family woman, like a mother', said Morgan.

'But if they were surrogates for a mother, they would most likely share some physical similarities', Prentiss replied, shaking her head. Amelia agreed: Margaret Hill was a Caucasian brunette, Kristen Ellis a light redhead, and Jill Crawford a blonde.

'If they're not surrogates, we need to consider other options', Hotch said. 'Thank you, Garcia.'

'I'll let you know if I find anything.' The screen went black.

'Maybe he's visionary', Morgan suggested. 'He believes that this certain group must be destroyed.'

'But visionary killers often suffer from psychosis', argued Reid. 'These murders are way too careful and thought-out for a psychotic UnSub.'

'Mission oriented, then?' asked Amelia to no one in particular. 'They're like visionaries but without the voices and hallucinations.'

'Say the UnSub is mission oriented', Hotch said. 'Why does he feel the need to destroy this group of middleclass, married women?'

'A grudge in his past', mentioned Prentiss.

'He must be nursing a _really_ deep wound for this', muttered JJ. Braell looked back at her file, seeing the wet yarn almost completely coming out of the victims' mouths, and thought, _He should have hidden the bodies. The yarn raised the attention of the FBI. He should have kept the yarn from showing at first. A bit sloppy. There should have been less diversity in the victimology; then we'd have incorrectly profiled him. He lacks foresight._

Although she didn't regret her thoughts, Amelia supposed that she shouldn't really be thinking them. After all, it wasn't as though she was critiquing a work of art. Was it?

'Morgan and I will go meet Detective Gale at the Police Station', said Hotch. 'Reid and Braell, you two go to the morgue. Prentiss and JJ, you'll come with us to the Station to interview the families.'

Braell was mostly quiet on their way to the coroner. Reid was driving, but she could feel his eyes on her from time to time.

'Can I help you?' she asked him when she caught him looking at her.

He blinked and turned back to the road. 'It's just...you went from consulting with the London Investigation Department to a position in the BAU, and you don't seem bothered at all. You don't even seem nervous.'

'I guess I'm more confident than most people', said Braell. 'And this isn't the worse case I've seen.'

'What was the worst?'

'I didn't consult on it, but I remember when a suspect, or UnSub, as you call them, targeted detectives by kidnapping three friends or family members and sent a letter of expensive but untraceable stationary that said things like, _"Your wife and sister say hello. Make your kid stop crying; he's annoying me." _The letters instructed the recipients to come to a specific address without alerting anyone else, that there were security cameras all around the home and if he saw any officers he'd kill the three victims inside in methods explicitly explained in the letters. Each detective felt compelled to do as the letters instructed despite the set precedent, and four detectives and all of their loved ones were tortured and murdered. Another person actually survived, because they seemed to have taken measures to lead Detective Inspector Mason to the addresses. Only one of their three taken loved ones walked out with the detective.'

'I think that's the most you've said at one time since I've met you.'

'So...since a week ago?'

He chuckled. 'Yeah, I guess.'

They sat there in silence; no longer did Reid glance at her and not once did she feel the need to move even the slightest bit for the next ten minutes, by which time they had arrived at the morgue.

'Ligature marks on the wrists of all three victims', said the medical examiner, a short, black haired woman of Indian heritage. 'By the bruising, I'd say he had them tied up for about three or four hours.'

'How much yarn did he use for each victim?' Amelia asked calmly, looking at the emaciated body of Kristen Ellis with interest.

'Each had about seven five-inch long strands in their throats', the ME replied. 'Jill Crawford had several strands in her lungs.'

'And there was no sign of sexual assault in any of the victims?' Reid asked her.

'No.'

'That rules out sexual motivation for the crimes', muttered Reid under his breath. Braell watched as he carefully inspected Ellis' bruised wrists. 'Do you have the yarn?'

The ME nodded and gave him a silver tray, on which were strands— more like wads— of wet, grey materials. Reid and Braell examined them with interest.

'In your professional opinion', Amelia asked the ME, perhaps too calmly to comfort the other two, 'would you say the yarn was forced down very quickly, or dangled in very slowly?'

'By the way they're still reasonably straight and not knotted together, I'd say dangled in slowly.'

Reid and Braell looked at each other, muttered a thank you to the ME, and walked away carrying their files. When they got out, they immediately broke into conversation.

'He's mission-oriented; he thinks that this faction of society needs to be eradicated, but these crimes don't scream _rage_.'

'They're too carefully executed for rage, but there's a reason he hates that faction. He has to have rage, but why isn't he showing it?'

'I don't know', said Reid. 'Maybe he's expressing his rage in a different way.'

'Mm, I don't think so', Braell responded. 'It's more like he's suppressing it—'

'As if there's something else he wants?' Reid finished for her.

Amelia nodded. 'Now we just need to figure out what's so important to him that he's able to restrain himself from expressing his anger.'

'_Is McKenna asleep yet?' _

'I think so; her light's been off for half an hour.'

'_I should be home in ten minutes; I _just _got out of the grocers. I've never seen such a line. I love you, Sean.'_

'Love you, too.'

_The woman turned off her phone, smiling. She'd hoped to get out of her meeting in time to see her young daughter off to bed, but she'd been held up by several of her co-workers. This disappointed her slightly, but she'd be able to see McKenna tomorrow. _

_The metal cans in the plastic bag she was carrying clanked together, making a harsh, quite unpleasant sound. They weighed down her left arm uncomfortably, making her almost enthusiastically anticipate putting them into her car. The moon was still waxing; it was ten thirty at night, and the car park was nearly empty, except for a few lingering vehicles, some coming, more going._

_Her small, dark green Buick was parked under a flickering orange light, on the passenger side of the vehicle. The woman tiredly placed her grocery bag in the boot of her car, and, brushing the limp brown hair from her face, proceeded to get into the car._

_A hand closed around her mouth, muffling her scream of surprise. She felt the cold metal of the gun press to her temple. 'Shut up', a voice told her. 'Shut up!' The gun pressed harder into her temple, and she fell silent, still with fear. He dragged her away from her Buick a dozen spaces over to a black truck. She could just make out the licence plate, and, summoning the few wits she had left about her, tried to memorise the random letter and number combination before being shoved into the back seat._

Braell drove the car steadily; beside her Emily was pocketing the mobile phone. 'And Jill Crawford was murdered, what, four days ago?'

'Four and a half, if you count the night', Amelia corrected.

'He's devolving; the other two weren't this close together.'

Amelia nodded and continued to drive, eyes fixed on the road, noticing everything. A loose strand of brown hair had fallen from its bun and rested by her eyes, but she didn't care and let it hang, more focused on driving and contemplating the case. Her thoughts seemed to bounce around in her brain, shooting back and forth as though arguing with each other.

_He's devolving, driven by rage._

But this crime doesn't scream rage.

_Oh, yes it does, in a different way, though. Use your head, what does he want?_

Apart from the eradication of middleclass women?

_Of course, you idiot. What can he get out of dangling the yarn in rather than shoving it in?_

Shoving it in would be easier.

_Obviously. So why didn't he?_

How should I know; am I suddenly the UnSub?

_Are you?_

Amelia shook her head to clear it as she pulled up by several flashing police cars. They were by an old, abandoned, worn down house, although in size it was closer to a flat, to be honest. The police had taped it off, but Amelia couldn't see any reason to do so; the area was so isolated and remote that she couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind to have business there. 'There's something different', she mused to herself.

'Which is?' asked Emily, looking at her curiously.

Amelia turned back to her, finally brushing the stray strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. 'No idea.'

Emily nodded, as though she knew not to ask questions. Amelia respected her for that.

Reid ran up to them. Amelia spotted once again the gun holster at his side, and had to resist the urge to cover her face with her hand. There was something seriously wrong with the way Reid carried his gun.

'What's different about this one?' Amelia asked him.

He looked slightly surprised, but answered. 'We think she left a note.'

Reid turned to walk away. Amelia followed behind him, trying not to grin like an idiot. Four rather fascinating murders and now a note: this was the most fun thing that had happened since coming into the BAU.

Amelia supposed that this would be a milestone for most people, being the first crime scene investigated on the job, but she had seen many bodies before. Although this shoving yarn down the victims' throats was quite new, there'd been far worse.

While the others circled the stiffened corpse with expressions of slight horror and, perhaps, sadness at the fourth death, Amelia could barely keep her distance; the pale grey strands protruding slightly from the victim's mouth fascinated her. Slipping on a pair of blue gloves, she inspected the body, thoroughly enjoying herself in this morbid but familiar scene, while JJ, standing near the corner of the room, introduced their stiff host.

'Jennifer Lucia, 41. She leaves a husband and daughter behind.'

'You said there was a note?' Amelia only faintly heard Emily asking JJ. JJ made some kind of response, but Amelia didn't pay any attention, instead searching on her own for the supposed note. She kneeled down next to the wooden chair to which Jennifer Lucia was tied, and, seeing some rough scratches, moved the stiff arm away from the wood.

_4MYLOVA_

Amelia screwed her face up in disgust. The grammar, the actual meaning...

'What kind of note is this?' asked Emily, knitting her eyebrows in confusion.

'A goodbye to her husband?' JJ suggested. 'To let him know she was thinking about him in her last moments?'

'No.' Braell was confident and adamant. This was not a sappy goodbye.

'What do you mean, "No"?' demanded Reid. Braell felt like saying something like, _'Bravo, you _can_ have a defiant tone.'_ But she kept the thought to herself.

'Why would she write like that? She came from a wealthy family; she was very well educated.'

'I don't know', said Prentiss sarcastically. 'Maybe she was being murdered and didn't feel like spelling out the whole words.'

Amelia closed her eyes and saw numbers flying. Abstract thoughts and ideas bounced off the inside of her brain, coming together to form solid thoughts:

_Seven characters. Abbreviated. Cognizant of the incorrectness. _Memory:_ active, conscious mind, nearly preconscious. _

_Seven characters. Abbreviated._

Amelia exhaled softly, eyes wide with a mix of something like elation and euphoria. 'Oh, she was _clever_._' _She looked at Prentiss, Reid, and JJ, and saw they didn't understand what she was saying at all.

'You don't _get_ it, do you?' she asked, exasperated. Her speech sped up; her mouth was hardly able to keep up with her moving brain in excitement. 'Seven characters, abbreviated words; she knew what she was doing, she knew _exactly _what she was doing. It's your American license plate system, isn't it?' _Why am I the one to recognise American license plates before they are?_ Amelia thought, trying to resist the urge to shake her head. 'Classic Freudian psychology', she continued. 'She must've seen the license plate and stored it into her conscious mind, but she paid attention to it, so that it nearly passed into the preconscious mind. It's obvious, isn't it? Mm, probably one of the last things she ever saw', Braell murmured.'

'Garcia', she heard Reid mutter on his mobile phone, 'we have a plate number for you, if you could just run it through the database, erm-_4, _like the number, _my lova, _with an _a _instead of an _er._ You got that? Okay, thanks.'

'Where to now?' Amelia asked no one in particular, still idly looking over the corpse.

'The Police Department', answered JJ. 'Hotch wants us looking over his victimology and comfort zone.'

'When does he want the profile?' Amelia wanted to know what they were doing, when they would be doing in, and where. She needed structure to function properly.

'As soon as possible', said JJ.

'Which will be when?' Amelia continued, still not satisfied.

'As soon as we have enough information to _give _a profile', Reid answered, as though it was obvious.

_You don't get it, _Braell thought, frustrated. She wanted at least an estimation, two hours, four hours, a set goal.

'Our work is done here', declared Prentiss. 'Braell, you're with me.'

Needless to say, Detective Adams was not pleased that four women had been murdered on his watch.

'I'd have 'im strung up and left up there, if my law permitted it', he fumed when Braell, Prentiss, Reid, and JJ arrived at the Police Department. 'And I'm close to taking it into my own hands and looking for him myself.'

'It wouldn't work', said Braell absentmindedly.

'What?' asked Adams, frowning. The others, too, were looking in her direction curiously.

'It wouldn't work', Braell repeated. 'You wouldn't have half as many resources as you do here, and so far you've nothing to go on.'

Adams sighed in a defeated manner. 'No, I don't.'

'Can I talk to you for a minute?' asked JJ quietly.

Amelia looked at her steadily. 'Of course.'

They walked a few metres away from the group, and JJ said, _'We_ have nothing to go on.'

'Sorry?'

'Amelia, I've hung around this team long enough to know what word choice can say about an individual.'

'So do I; I'm a psychologist, JJ.'

'Amelia, you said, _"You've_ got nothing to go on." It's our problem too, that's why we're here. Saying _"you've" _implies that you're apathetic about the case, like it doesn't concern you. It does.'

'I know.' Amelia was calm and her voice pleasant and steady, but a surging ire was rising within her. For whatever reason, situations like this made her angry to the point of having to restrain herself from reacting badly.

'I'm just making sure', JJ said, smiling. 'It's what friends do, right?'

Amelia smiled back, an utterly believable but purely superficial smile. 'Obviously.' Amelia wasn't quite sure they were _friends_ yet; to her they were more like acquaintances on reasonably good terms with each other.

She did indeed have very few real friends; even they seemed to slip away like dust in the wind. Amelia found little use for them, although they were, admittedly, very easy to use for personal gain. Normal people were so gullible! Such gullibility made her recoil slightly with deep distaste, but potential gain often pulled her in anyway. She lived on a planet full of idiots, but when idiots came her way, she might as well make some use of them. The alternative was to squash them, another strong instinct, but she usually pushed it away in favour of potential uses.

Amelia might as well play friends with her little team for all it was worth.

She and JJ walked back to the group, now in a special little room spared for the BAU. Prentiss was taping up photos onto the board, Morgan was looking at his case file, and Reid was marking red dots on the map of Topeka.

'I've figured out his comfort zone', declared Reid. 'There's a radius of about 16 kilometres from right..._here.'_ He vigorously made a dot in the middle of the red circle.

'So, about 804 square kilometres', Braell muttered under her breath.

'804.2, to be exact', corrected Reid.

'No', Braell argued. 'When multiplying by _pi_, we deal with estimates, not exact numbers. So, technically, there is no "to be exact." An exact number does and does not exist.'

'But, _technically_, we would say it's 804.2 square kilometres.'

'But, _technically, _not many people regard decimals, so we would just say 804.'

Prentiss and Morgan snorted. The latter got up, smiling widely, and clapped Reid on the shoulder. 'Oh, Reid...you just got out-nerded by the newbie. Want a little ice for that burn?'

'Burn?' asked Amelia, frowning. 'That was a fact, and besides, you use cool water to treat burns, not ice.'

Morgan looked exceedingly let down and stared at her as though he were in pain. 'Braell, for one second, _one second', _he held up a finger emphatically, 'you were _cool.'_

'If that's according to your standards, I'm happy where I'm at.'

Prentiss and JJ laughed a little; Reid smiled and looked back at the map.

And in that moment, Amelia remembered a question that had been eating at her ever since they'd left the Medical Examiner.

'But why dangle it in?'

The others looked at her; she decided to elaborate on her question. 'He could've forced the yarn down their throats; it would've been quicker and more efficient, but he opted to slowly lower it into their mouths. Why?'

Morgan frowned, looking again at his case file. 'Forcing it down means rage; maybe he's not rage-motivated.'

'But he _is_, though', insisted Braell, very, very frustrated with herself. 'I-I can't-'

She lost all words, instead falling into a series of flying thoughts. Suddenly she burst out forcefully, _'Reid!'_

He looked quite alarmed. 'What?'

'Sit.'

'What?'

'_Sit!' _Amelia repeated, eyes wide with force. He sat, and looked at her nervously as she walked over to him.

'Don't move', she instructed. Reid looked at the others, as though silently begging them to help him. They looked just as confused as he was.

'The UnSub most likely held them by the hair to keep their heads down. So...' Braell's commentary was more for herself than for anyone else in the room. She pretended to hold Reid's head down with her left hand and pretended to have a length of yarn in the other (without touching him, of course). 'If I were to force it down', she muttered, making a fist with her right hand and lowering it slightly over Reid's face, who by now was looking positively alarmed. 'My hand would obviously be larger, being a man's.'

_Obscures vision, _she made a mental note to herself, preferring not to voice it out loud. 'But I _dangled _it in, so my hand would be higher, up here.' She moved her hand up again and inspected the position.

What was different about the two positions?

And the answer came to her in a sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration.


	4. Dilation Part Two

'The eyes', said Braell quietly. 'He couldn't see the _eyes_ if he forced it in.'

'So? What's so special about the eyes?' asked Morgan. Braell felt like making a face. Was her team just a bunch of idiots?

'The dilation', supplied Prentiss. 'He wants to see their eyes dilate in fear; it gets him off.'

_Thank you!_ Amelia mentally sighed. At least Emily's head wasn't just something she put her hat on.

'Okay', began JJ, as though trying to lay everything out before her. 'What does this mean for our profile?'

'It means we have a sexual sadist who gets off on seeing the fear in his victim's eyes', said a new voice. They all looked as Hotch and Detective Adams walked briskly through the door.

'Where've you been?' asked Morgan.

'On the phone with Strauss', he answered shortly. The others did not press him; Amelia got the distinct impression that he was a very private person, and that gave her even more respect for him. She could respect private people, because they were similar to herself.

'Were you listening in on us?' Emily asked him.

'I was at the door with Adams', Hotch answered. He nodded at Amelia. 'Quite the visual demonstration, Braell.'

Had Amelia been weaker person she may have blushed, but she stood there, unfazed. 'Thank you, sir.' She thought she saw the others smile a bit out of her peripheral vision.

'And we've established that he's mission-oriented', noted Prentiss.

'Loves the power and the control', Morgan added.

'What does this mean?' asked Adams, looking thoroughly confused and maybe a little desperate. Amelia had almost forgotten that their host detective probably hadn't a clue what they were talking about.

'It means we have a basic profile', answered Hotch calmly.

Adams nodded. 'I'll call them all together', he said tiredly, leaving the room.

Hotch nodded back in acknowledgement and turned to his team. 'You all know this kind of profile. Braell, I want you watching, not contributing. If you feel you have something to add, you go to me, and I'll verify it.'

'Yes, sir', she replied, inclining her head slightly to recognise his authority-which would have been too large of a step for her grandiose ego to make for anyone else, but her respect for Aaron Hotchner was by now so deep she could truly recognise him as her superior.

This was very odd for her-she had only known him for a week, and had only actually spent a few hours with him, but already she respected him. She didn't trust him, no, she never trusted anyone until she'd known them for at least a year, but she respected him, and that was a closer step to trust than she'd made with the rest of the team. Friendship never ensured trust, but respect did, and contrary to her team members' beliefs, she felt no feelings of friendship to them.

They all walked out the door into the main office, where a few dozen officers and Detective Adams were waiting, looking at the profilers expectantly. Morgan and Hotch immediately took the lead.

'We're looking for a white male in his late-thirties to mid-forties', Hotch told them. 'He is a sociopath with subpar education and intelligence, and has a menial job that he feels strips him of his individuality. We would classify him as mission-oriented, so look for someone who has been repeatedly disrespected by multiple women who are similar to our victims.'

'This guy's a sexual sadist', Morgan continued. 'We think he gets off on seeing the fear in the victims' eyes. He loves the power and control, which means he's in a subordinate position in his job or home. He may also have been abused as a child at home, which tends to leave people with feelings of powerlessness and inadequacy.'

'This power-control basis is not unsimilar to Ted Bundy', said Reid. 'He was raised by his grandparents and told that his mother was his older sister. He was enraged when he found out about his parentage and resented his mother for years for not telling him. That, added to the fact that his grandfather was highly abusive, created a perfect base for a need for power.'

'This man just suffered from what he sees as a major disrespect', said Prentiss. 'He might have lost a job, lost a girlfriend, something that would have shamed him, a trigger. Family and friends might notice slightly erratic behaviour, although they won't think much of it; random outbursts of anger for seemingly minor issues.'

'He most likely lives within a 16 kilometre radius from Topeka', Hotch finished. 'Thank you.'

The officers nodded and dispersed, leaving the team crowded around each other in a lumpy circle.

'We need to get the car owner from Garcia', Hotch told them, going back into their little room. They surrounded the small table in the centre expectantly as Morgan dialled Garcia's number on his mobile phone. It was silent for perhaps a fraction of a second, before the eccentric technical analyst answered.

'_Chocolate Thunder, what are your troubles?'_

Morgan grinned. 'Careful, Baby Girl, you're on speaker.'

Amelia looked between Morgan and the phone on the table, thoroughly unimpressed. _Chocolate Thunder? Baby Girl? _She was so confused and also a bit disgruntled from the rather blatant lack of professionalism.

'Garcia', asked Reid, voice raised so that she would hear him over the phone, 'did you look into the license plate number I gave you?'

'_Honey, I checked into that _years_ ago. The owner's name is Wallie Sanford. He doesn't look suspicious, though-he's twenty-seven, lives in a reasonably nice house in a reasonably nice neighbourhood with his girlfriend, Lisa Franks. He owns a small art shop where he sells his own works.'_

'Hotch, this guy doesn't fit the profile', Prentiss commented. 'Maybe it wasn't a license plate.'

Amelia shook her head. This _was_ a license plate. 'But he might have friends and family who borrowed it', she pressed. 'It's worth a try, isn't it?'

'Braell's right', Hotch agreed. 'We have to exhaust every possibility. Braell and I will go interview him; the rest of you find out everything you can about Wallie Sanford and our last victim. Garcia, send me his home and work address.'

'_Yeah.'_

Hotch and Braell left, the former leading the way, the latter's ears hearing Reid say, 'Morgan, don't call me "boy wonder."'

Amelia smiled slightly for a short moment, before seriousness once again clouded her face. 'Sir', she asked Hotch, 'why did Garcia call him "Chocolate Thunder"?'

'Garcia is an optimistic extrovert who needs to keep conversation light and happy so that the crime scene photos and the overall gloomy air of this job don't get to her', Hotch answered, keeping his pace as he and Braell walked out the door into the bright sunlight. 'None of us feel the need to stop them; it's kind of their thing.'

'Ah.'

Amelia clambered into the vehicle when they reached it-she was not used to such a large step-and closed the door, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. She had an idea of what was coming.

But Hotch was silent as he drove through the traffic to the address Garcia had sent him. Amelia set her mind to looking at the other vehicles they passed, and thinking of the psychology associated with the colours. _Blue-encourages productivity. Red-stimulates appetite. Yellow-strains the eyes. White-illusion of space…_

Braell was slightly surprised when the vehicle stopped and Hotch began to get out; she hadn't realised how much time had passed. She too got out and walked up the pavement to Wallie Sanford's house.

It was quite small, painted a pale tan with dark gold trim; Amelia didn't know quite what to make of it. There were rocks in the yard, neatly contained, and there was something rather queer about the place Amelia couldn't put her finger on.

Hotch hit on the door, somewhere between knocking and pounding, but not definitively either, and called, 'Wallie Sanford! FBI.'

A dog barked somewhere within the house, and there were sounds of shuffling feet before the door was opened. A short blonde man appeared in the doorway.

'Can I help you?' he asked, perplexed. He wore naught but a shabby blue robe and fuzzy socks. Braell supposed he might be called handsome by most, having a considerable build and a sharp jawline. He reminded her of Luke, although her late friend was far less...shabby-looking. Thinking of Luke made her sad, and she pushed the picture of him out of her mind. There was no room for sadness while she was working.

'Mr Sanford', inquired Hotchner, holding up a picture of the scratched license plate on his mobile phone, 'is this your license plate?'

The man squinted, straining to see the faint scratches in the wood, and nodded. 'Yeah. Yeah, that's mine. Bought it for my Lisa.'

_Nevermind,_ thought Amelia. _Definitely not Luke._ Luke O'Riley would never speak so lazily, nor would he call Amelia 'his.'

'Can you tell us where you've been in the last 48 hours?'

'I-I-' his eyes narrowed at them. 'I know what this is. You and your government are trying to get me on something I didn't do! Is that it?'

Amelia was slightly taken aback, but mostly was very unimpressed. She realised it was very easy to unimpress her. _'Mr Sanford',_ she said rather emphatically, frowning deeply, 'we are not trying to "get you" as you call it. We're investigating four _murders_ in the area and one of the victims scratched _your license plate_ onto their chair. Now, you can explain to us why your license plate was the last thing our victim was thinking about, or we can come back in about an hour with a warrant.'

Wallie looked at them suspiciously, blue eyes still narrowed, before relenting. 'Whatever.'

He opened the door so that they could come in, and shut it behind them. Hard.

'Why was my plate scratched onto her chair?' he asked them reluctantly.

'We were hoping you could tell us', Hotch replied.

'I don't know nothin' about your murders!' Wallie cried, desperate. 'I was at my art shop, with Lisa; she can confirm it, just go and ask!'

'Is there anyone who might have borrowed your car?' Hotch interrogated. 'Someone who has access to it, someone you might lend it to without a second thought?'

Sanford frowned deeply, scratching his head. The image was so cliche it was almost comical. _He's not very _bright,_ is he?_ Amelia thought to herself. 'Well, there's Marcus', Sanford pondered out loud. 'But he can't be your guy; he's just a caretaker.'

'Who's Marcus?' asked Braell skeptically.

'Marcus Whitstrom', Wallie answered immediately, apparently having forgotten his previous reluctance. 'He's my half-brother. He borrows my car now and again.'

Braell and Hotch exchanged similar glances.

'Like I said', Wallie repeated earnestly, 'he's not your murderer.'

'Thank you, Mr Sanford', said Hotch, turning to leave. Braell followed him, glimpsing back at the man still scratching his head, standing in his bathrobe like an idiot.

As soon as they were outside by the vehicle, Hotch dialled Garcia's number. 'Garcia! I need everything you have on Marcus Whitstrom...Yes...Don't call me "honey."'

Amelia grinned and clambered into the passenger's seat. Hotch followed, getting in on the other side.

'Good job, Braell', Hotch told her sincerely.

She looked at him. 'Thank you, sir.'

'You've done well in the BAU so far', he continued. 'Especially for someone with your..._unique_...background. Your particular psychology doesn't seem to have affected your work.'

'You and Strauss were talking about it on the phone, weren't you?' She asked. It was a rhetorical question-she knew the answer already. 'You don't regret your decision, then?'

'Not yet', Hotch answered, driving away from the Sanford house.

'Not yet', Braell repeated, nodding.

'And you know how quickly I'd get rid of you if your behaviour hindered the team in any way.'

'Yes, sir', she replied immediately. Amelia was secretly grateful that he didn't label her by her psychology as most people did. Using the different terms to describe her aptitude showed that he saw potential within her, despite what other people saw.

What they saw _eventually,_ at least.

Within minutes Hotch's mobile phone began to ring loudly. He answered it immediately, putting it on speaker. 'What do you have, Morgan?'

'_Hotch', _said Morgan, _'we think this Marcus guy is our UnSub. He fits the profile-mid-forties, menial job. We looked into his biological mother; apparently the neighbours called the police sometimes saying they heard what sounded like her beating him. He was slapped with a restraining order from his ex-girlfriend a few years ago; she said he was harassing her after he proposed to her and she said no. They were both middle-class women in their early forties.'_

'Where is he?' asked Hotch quietly.

'_He _should_ be at work', _answered Morgan, _'but given the circumstances, we can't be sure. Garcia says he works as a caretaker at the Museum of Botany. The Museum manager hasn't been seen for several weeks now. Also a middle-class woman in her forties. Her name's Diane Poole.'_

'Morgan, take Prentiss and go to the Museum. Where does he live?'

'_Slap in the middle of the comfort zone.'_

'That's convenient', Braell commented quietly with a hint of sarcasm.

'_Was that Braell's sarcasm?'_ Morgan asked.

Amelia's eyes widened slightly; she hadn't meant to be heard.

'As a matter of fact, it was', Hotch answered. He didn't look angry, or even irritated at Amelia's comment; rather, he looked slightly amused (or at least as close to_ amused_ as he could look).

'_Tell her Reid says hello.'_ Amelia's face scrunched up in disgust at Morgan's sultry, seductive voice.

'_Morgan!'_

'_See ya, Hotch.'_

It went silent. Hotch looked over and smiled ever so slightly at the scandalised expression on Amelia's face. 'Don't pay any attention to Morgan.'

'There goes that dream', Braell murmured, eyes fixating again on the road. _Morgan..._Amelia began to profile him, even though she didn't think the others would approve. _The loyal friend who likes to be the arrogant player. Easygoing and confident, but distrusting, probably because of past betrayals. Independent; doesn't want help-maybe was offered bad help in the past? From someone he trusted, obviously-a parent, teacher, mentor, etc. _

_Reid...insecure. Morgan probably makes the insecurities worse, although he doesn't know. Uses his intelligence as a shield. Sorts out problems with his brain-not prepared to emotionally cope with things. Not comfortable with talking about or facing his emotions. Introverted. Subordinate, whereas Hotch and Morgan are dominant. _

_Prentiss-_

The car lurched forward slightly as it came to a stop, pulling Braell out of her reverie. Hotch was already exiting the car, and so she, too, hurried out, nearly tripping on the ledge of the pavement. She shook her head at her own clumsiness-she wasn't usually this ungraceful.

Amelia had thought Wallie Sanford's home was small; it was a palace compared to Whitstrom's place. It was more of an extremely small flat than a house, painted a dirty grey that reminded Amelia of the damp, sticky strands of yarn that had been found in the victim's throats.

'Amelia', Hotch reminded her, 'we're investigating a victim's home; we need the vests.'

Amelia spun on the spot and hurried back. Whilst she'd gone to investigate the house immediately, Hotch had remained at the car, and was holding a bullet-proof vest out to her. She pulled it over her head impatiently, not bothering to properly fix the straps. Honestly, she hardly cared about the vest at all-she was more interested in _excitement_ than _caution._ Her mother worried about her lack of regard for her own safety almost incessantly.

'Isn't it normal procedure to wait for SWAT?' She asked him, eyebrow raised.

'They'll be here in a few minutes', Hotch answered shortly, black eyes boring into her.

And they waited-oh, Braell could _barely _contain herself, _barely_ refrain from rushing to the house in that thrill of adventure-but finally the large, black vehicles arrived, out of which the vest-clad fighters seemed to pour. Their faces were very sombre, and their behaviour very stiff, and they walked with an air of superiority and stealth. Braell admired those who took their jobs seriously, and watched them ready themselves with interest. She never cared that much for that thing called _standard procedure._

'What's the plan?' she muttered to Hotchner, eyeing the SWAT team somewhat warily. For all her admiration, she had yet little trust for these dark, gun-bearing strangers.

'I think you already know the plan, Braell', Hotch answered, also watching the newcomers. 'We search the house for Marcus Whitstrom and any other indicators that he's our UnSub. You've done this before; you know the drill.'

Braell nodded absentmindedly. Would they hurry up? They had things to do, places to go; what were they even doing?

Hotch handed Amelia a small earpiece with thin wires. 'You'll need these.'

She strung them around her ears, not entirely on-board with them. If they got tangled in her clothes or hair (even though it was kept up in a tight bun, as usual), they would only slow her down, and she was so stubborn and independent that she most likely wouldn't actually use them to call for help, anyway. Stubbornness and independence-or maybe pride and egocentrism. Amelia didn't really care one way or another.

As the SWAT team advanced towards the door, Braell could see it was very small: a man of six feet would have to bend over just to get in. They knocked on the door. 'Marcus Whitstrom!'

No answer.

Amelia wondered at the very conventional and traditional methods. Everyone always seemed to follow the same procedures: knock on the door, call their names, etc, etc. What made them think a murderer would just _answer the door_ when the FBI came knocking? Even UnSubs of below-average intelligence would know _not _to answer. And if there was no way to get away, why would you even be waiting there like a sitting duck at all?

As SWAT kicked down the door and they all rushed in, she pushed her reservations about the competencies of serial murderers and raised her handgun, following Hotch into the narrow hallways. The whole place had gone to rubbish: the paint was peeling off the walls, there were plates of food stacked on the table and sofa in the front room. The stench was horrendous: the odour of uncleanliness and decay and death.

Quite literally-she and Hotch both wrinkled their noses in disgust. They knew that smell-that horrid smell of rotting human flesh.

Amelia began to feel sick.

Shouts of 'Clear!' began to surround her as they confirmed the emptiness of the few rooms in the house. Hotch and Braell stuck together, inspecting the front room for guns and knives or yarn. Amelia found a small, handwritten letter addressed to _Claira Whitstrom. _It was dated 16 July, 2000.

'Hotch, look at this', she alerted him quietly. 'This is from eight years ago; his mother was already dead.'

'I know; I found a few other ones exactly like that one.' He showed her letters nearly identical to the one she'd found, with different dates. 'He's been writing letters to his dead mother.'

Amelia sighed a bit, looking over them. 'Average-sized lettering-he's introverted and withdrawn. Narrow spacing, fear of being alone, narrow l-loops, which lead to feelings of tension, closed o's, so he's private...' She continued to analyse it, shaking her head. 'Hotch, his handwriting is just a roadmap of tension. It's like he was a time bomb just waiting to explode.'

'Agent Hotchner!' called a dark SWAT officer, striding into the front room and motioning behind him with his hand. 'We have a body.'

Neither agents looked alarmed, but calmly followed the officer into the backroom. Here, the stench grew until it was almost overpowering, and Amelia had to force her arms to stay at her sides, or else they would fly to her face without hesitation. She'd seen many dead bodies before, in various stages of decomposition, but the smell never got old.

When they came into the backroom, Braell nearly gagged: there was what she supposed had once been a middle-aged woman tied to a wooden chair-what was left of her flesh was purple and brown and grey, and her eyes had been eaten out by thousands of squirming, milk-coloured maggots. They had bored holes all into her body, and were still moving about what was left of her intestines. One could just barely see the grey strands of yarn protruding from her mouth.

'Hotch', Amelia choked out, pointing to the ball of grey yarn on the table beside the rotting body, 'I think the MO began out of conveniency. Closest...closest thing there for the first murder.'

'And it became incorporated into the MO over time', Hotch finished for her. He wasn't looking too well himself.

'I'll call the others', Braell told him, desperate to get away from that room. She made her way through the several officers around the doorway, and walked back out into the front room, where the odour was thankfully less powerful.

The buttons of her mobile phone beeped softly as she dialed Morgan's number, which had been given to her when she'd first gotten the job. She made a mental note to turn off the sound when she punched the buttons: they were very annoying.

It rang twice before someone picked up. _'Who is this?' _came Morgan's voice.

'Morgan, it's Braell.'

'_Didn't recognise the number. We talked to Whitstrom's colleague at the museum. He said Diane Poole threatened to take away Marcus' job if he didn't clean up his act. They said he was volatile and impulsive and couldn't take responsibility for anything.'_

'I'm surprised no one suspected him from the start', Braell mused idly. 'We think we found her here.'

'_Do you need Garcia to send you a picture for identification?'_

'No', answered Braell, scrunching up her face. 'It's all we can do to recognise it as the body of a _human being_, let alone someone specific. It's too far along in decomposition. Has Reid found anything to help us find him?'

'_I was hoping a trip to his house would help us determine more about his personality', _Reid answered. Amelia realised she was on speaker.

'Erm...' murmured Amelia, shuffling the papers on the table, 'we found several letters he wrote to his mother after she died. I think it became an obsession...Listen: _"Today I bought some eggs and made a mushroom omelet. Your favourite. I gave you some angel flowers today when I went to see you. I brought you an angel, ma. Are you proud of me?" _This is dated...June 10, 2005.'

'_So he's desperate to please his mother?' _asked Prentiss. _'Desperate for her pride and affection?'_

'When he was threatened with unemployment he probably thought he was letting his mother down', Braell muttered. 'You all should see his handwriting. I did a quick analysis and, really, it's like watching a car crash: you can just see everything unfolding. The handwriting makes it look like he was a time bomb. He was going to snap sometime.'

'_But he says he brought her an _angel', Morgan mentioned._ 'Angel flowers. What's that supposed to mean?'_

'_He could be talking about Brugmansia', _Reid answered. 

'Angel trumpets', Amelia commented. 'Bringing flowers to her grave?'

'_Possibly.'_

'Could you have Garcia find out where Claira Whitstrom was buried, and send us the address?'

'_Yeah, Braell.'_

Braell closed her mobile phone. 'Hotch!'

Hotchner walked into the front room, watching her expectantly. 'Claira Whitstrom's grave', Amelia explained. 'We think he might have gone there looking for his mother's approval.'

'Where's she buried?'

'Garcia's looking for us', Braell answered. He nodded, satisfied, and led her out of the house. The fresh, clean air was like a balm to her senses, after the prison of death inside. Hotch exchanged some words with a SWAT officer, who nodded, and they got into the black car once more.

'Has Garcia gotten back to you yet?'

Amelia's mobile buzzed. 'She has now.'

The cemetery would have been quite beautiful if they weren't looking for a serial murderer.

Ivy climbed up in dark spirals up the thick trunks of trees; the air was refreshing, tainted with the scent of jasmine and pale lilacs. The grass was green, the sky was streaked with deep reds and purples with the setting of the sun. They gave a warm, pleasant sheen to the grey and white headstones of the graveyard; there must have been hundreds upon hundreds of them.

As Hotch and Braell pulled into the car park, they saw another black vehicle do the same, and Reid and Prentiss hopped out, guns in their hands.

'We found Wallie Sanford's car further back in the car park', Morgan informed them. 'He's here.'

'You two take the east side', Hotch ordered. 'Braell and I will take the west. Go.'

The two pairs separated. Braell's left hand shaded her eyes from the setting sun, beautiful and bright and blinding.

The search seemed to take hours, although in reality it was barely a few minutes. Amelia and Hotch walked close enough to protect each other's blind spots but there was enough space that they each had a wide field of vision. But they saw nothing.

Amelia turned to him with a pensive look on her face. 'He's probably on Morgan and Reid's side. I don't see anything; do you?'

Hotch shook his head, eyes flickering around the shadows of the east.

'Do we turn around and meet up with them on their side?' Amelia asked. 'See if fresh eyes help?'

'Yeah', said Hotch. 'Okay.'

Amelia was struck by how tired he sounded, although his face remained firm and steadfast. _Well,_ she reasoned, _he has a wife and child at home; there's no telling how much sleep he got last night. And he has Strauss and the Board of Directors to deal with his decision…_

He'd let her into the team against the advisement of his superiors, and Amelia knew he was having to check in with them more than _she_ ever liked to check in with her mum and dad. Hotch was an introvert, and the requirement was probably draining him. But, try as she might, Braell couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for causing the trouble. After all, it wasn't _her_ fault the Board of Directors were paranoid control freaks.

Only two seconds had passed since Hotch had agreed to join the other two when about four gunshots were fired.

Hotch and Braell didn't even look at each other before they started running eastwards. Adrenaline pumped through Braell's veins-the gunshots had triggered something animalistic deep inside of her. The Sergeants in the Criminal Investigation Department had been very wary and a bit afraid of that foreign instinct, but DI Mason had repeatedly and tiredly told them to back off.

Amelia, high on the thrill of adventure and risk, reached the area first, a few feet ahead of Hotch. To be fair, she'd been the one leaping over trees and headstones and bushes in excitement. As she came to a halt, her eyes quickly flitted over the two men standing before her. They seemed to be in perfectly good health. And then there was the middle-aged man lying on his back, gasping for his final breaths.

Braell felt rather let down. She'd been looking forward to firing her gun. Mum called her pleasure of firing the gun abnormal, unnatural, and dangerous. Braell always answered that abnormal pleasures came with abnormal psychologies. But she didn't care.

'Came at us with a dead branch', Reid got out, a little breathlessly. There was indeed a thick piece of wood, clamped in the dead man's fingers. 'I think we both shot at about the same time.'

They all looked at each other beneath the sun's last strains of golden light, and as it set over the horizon for the night, so the spirit of Marcus Whitstrom passed from his body.

The coroners lifted the black bag into the back of coroner van.

Amelia watched listlessly, lost in her thoughts. She didn't notice Hotch coming up behind her.

'You've done well, Braell', he told her idly. 'Your position here may work out yet.'

'Thank you, sir', she told him formally.

'I know you wanted to shoot Whitstrom.'

Amelia looked at him steadily. She was not angry, but interested. Just interested. 'What happened to the _No-Profiling-Your-Colleagues_ policy?'

Hotch laughed somewhere between a smirk and a chuckle: not arrogant enough to be a smirk and not strong enough to be a chuckle. 'But you shouldn't let the others know. Especially not Reid. He doesn't like shooting people. He won't understand the _desire_ to shoot. None of them really will.'

'I know', she told them. 'You get used to it after a while.'

Hotch nodded gravely. 'Especially if it's partly hereditary.'

Amelia nodded back, and looked him steadily in the eyes. 'Could you tell me the best bookstore for psychology? I have a book on psychopathy Mum told me to read.'

'_One soweth and another reapeth is a verity that applies to evil as well as good.' -George Eliot_


End file.
